Live review: Wilco at Copley Symphony Hall

I loathe sounding like a skipping record, so I'll try my best to dispense with the usual Wilco = Greatest Band Alive blather that tends to gush out whenever I've just seen them. Just know: That's no mean feat when it's been 2½ years since their last Southern California appearances, notably at the Fox and the Wiltern.

Why do they do that? Why stay away for so long when so many other regions (not just Jeff Tweedy's beloved Chicago) benefit from leg after leg of touring? Surely it isn't just to hype anticipation – Wilco sells out everywhere they go, repeatedly and frequently. If they announced a string of Southwest dates in summer or fall immediately after their four shows this week, that next batch of tickets would disappear fast, too.

How do they do that? Smartly. Not counting very occasional Greek gigs, they typically don't come to town aiming for packed houses at such large places. Instead, they tend to spread out runs across a handful of 2,000-capacity venues, like the ones they play through Friday, when Wilco becomes one of few rock bands to test the volume limits of the downtown Los Angeles Theatre.

The sextet arrived Sunday night, the third gig after returning from winter break, for a Cali kickoff at Copley Symphony Hall, San Diego's Wiltern, and they were in cut-above form for two often blissful hours that were over much too soon. Copley has a strict cutoff at 11 p.m., so while recent shows have offered 18 or 19 songs in the main set, plus as many as eight or nine more in the encore, this performance served up 20 in the main, but only three quickies in the coda: the title track from their widely acclaimed new album The Whole Love, a gloriously happy “Heavy Metal Drummer” and a rapid, almost ramshackle rip through “Outtasite (Outta Mind).”

Tonight Tweedy appears in conversation with comedian Jeff Garlin at Largo, presumably with a bit of performance attached. Tuesday night Wilco headlines the Hollywood Palladium for the first time in their nearly 20-year history. Wednesday they return to the Wiltern. Then comes that rare L.A. Theatre show, followed by a Feb. 10 encore at the Arlington Theatre in Santa Barbara – the timing of which has me wondering if we might finally see Wilco perform at the Grammys, on Feb. 12. (At least they've got time off to go, it would seem.)

Assuming we can find a way in, our Soundcheck staff hopes to cover all of them. Overkill? Hardly. As when Bruce Springsteen and the Dead or Phish and Radiohead come to town, fans of every generation from far and wide clamor to get into as many shows as possible. We know at least half the setlist will change from night to night – and that the percentage of difference will be even higher when gigs are in the same city.

There are some constants: For starters, most sets favor material from A Ghost Is Born (their 2004 Grammy winner) and Yankee Hotel Foxtrot (their storied breakthrough a decade ago). The winsome “Hummingbird” and an ever-surging “Shot in the Arm” have been ending the main segments, though there's no telling which piece will come first, or if “Hummingbird” will even flitter its way in after all.

So far it seems like you get either “I Am Trying to Break Your Heart” or “Misunderstood,” the latter of which was remarkably fleeter Sunday without sacrificing the slightest bit of passion, including 28 rounds of “nothing!” at its emotional apex. But you probably won't get both songs in the same set.

Expect several from The Whole Love, of course. They seem particularly fond of the R.E.M.-ish fun of “I Might” (they tone down the fuzz on stage) as well as the realistic romantic cheer of “Dawned on Me” and the unsettled Nick Drake calm of “Rising Red Lung.” Many times they'll also segue from the cataclysmic finish of “Born Alone” into the slightly demented jauntiness of “Capitol City” – though not in San Diego.

Others you can bet big on hearing, no matter which show you catch:

“California Stars,” their most heartwarming number, from that first Woody Guthrie/Billy Bragg collaboration in 1998, often revived when they're in town;

And the straight-up country of “Box Full of Letters” from 1995's A.M., presumably so they can claim to have played something off every album. (Sky Blue Sky, meanwhile, has been getting short shrift lately.)

Then there's “Impossible Germany,” which has almost become Wilco's “Dark Star,” only shorter and you actually get to hear it most every time you see 'em.

It often chimes in somewhere in the thick of the set, employed as another showcase for guitarist Nels Cline, a rivetingly expressive virtuoso among post-punk players, and a good chunk of the reason why Wilco has become so mighty since the tour behind 2004's A Ghost Is Born. (Multi-instrumentalist Pat Sansone also joined back then, while keyboardist Jorgensen had been around since Yankee. Glenn Kotche started applying his distinctive percussive feel after 1999's Summerteeth. Bassist John Stirratt has been at Tweedy's side since this post-Uncle Tupelo enterprise began.)

But here's the thing about Cline, who's incidentally a dozen years older than the rest of the group: He may get his most extended spotlight amid all the spiraling riffage of “Germany” but he's a showstopper throughout the entire performance. His eruptive work when “Muzzle of Bees” came crashing in on Sunday, for one, was brilliantly tempered to match the black-and-white fireworks popping off in vague visuals overhead. Cline is remarkably adept, able to freak out alongside the wildest avant-garde yet never forget the soul-enriching joy that comes from simply sustaining a soaring note. He operates at a higher level than most rock musicians, as does Wilco in full, each member contributing uniquely and harmoniously to the total stew, the bigger picture … the whole love.

There's one other portion of their sets lately that may stay the same throughout this run: the opening, which I found magnetizing but some fans may deem too slow for a starter. Churning at times imperceptibly, more hypnotic than dramatic, the mood builds from the 12-minute contemplation “One Sunday Morning (Song for Jane Smiley's Boyfriend)” to the droning experimental groove of “Art of Almost,” often with a buffer in between (this time: “Poor Places”).

Without pause they heaved and weaved through all three pieces – 25 minutes of atmospheric shading, finely wrought lyrics and mounting pressure, the pace ebbing and flowing from phrase to shifting phrase. The audience didn't know whether to sit or stand.

But they certainly could tell they'd seen -- and felt -- something rare. “I've been seeing these guys since the beginning, dozens of times,” the fan in front of me mentioned on the way out of Copley. “I always think it can't get any better than the last time. And then they come with that opening half-hour or so … just mind-blowing.”

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